like an expert talking.”
“No, I sat behind her on the plane. Listened to some oily Frenchman ooze his entire repertoire all over her. Smashing lines, I have to say, but she didn’t fall for it.” He squinted at Guy. “Weren’t you on that flight out of Bangkok?”
Guy nodded. He didn’t remember the man, but then, he’d spent the entire flight white-knuckling his armrest and gulping down whiskey. Airplanes did that to him. Even nice big 747s with nice French stewardesses. It never failed to astonish him that the wings didn’t fall off.
At the other end of the garden, the trio of Russians had started to sing. Not, unfortunately, in the same key. Maybe not even the same song. It was hard to tell.
“Never would’ve guessed it,” the Englishman said, glancing over at the Russians. “I still remember the Yanks drinking at that very table. Never would’ve guessed there’d be Russians sitting there one day.”
“When were you here?”
“Sixty-eight to ’75.” He held out a pudgy hand in greeting. “Dodge Hamilton, London Post.”
“Guy Barnard. Ex-draftee.” He shook the man’s hand. “Reporter, huh? You here on a story?”
“I was.” Hamilton looked mournfully at his Scotch. “But it’s fallen through.”
“What has? Your interviews?”
“No, the concept. I called it a sentimental journey. Visit to old friends in Saigon. Or, rather, to one friend in particular.” He took a swallow of Scotch. “But she’s gone.”
“Oh. A woman.”
“That’s right, a woman. Half the human race, but they might as well be from Mars for all I understand the sex.” He slapped down the glass and motioned for another refill. The bartender resignedly shoved the whole bottle of Scotch over to Hamilton. “See, the story I had in mind was the search for a lost love. You know, the sort of copy that sells papers. My editor went wild about it.” He poured the Scotch, recklessly filling the glass to the brim. “Ha! Lost love! I stopped by her old house today, over on Rue Catinat. Or what used to be Rue Catinat. Found her brother still living there. But it seems my old love ran away with some new love. A sergeant. From Memphis, no less.”
Guy shook his head in sympathy. “A woman has a right to change her mind.”
“One day after I left the country?”
There wasn’t much a man could say to that. But Guy couldn’t blame the woman. He knew how it was in Saigon—the fear, the uncertainty. No one knowing if there’d be a slaughter and everyone expecting the worst. He’d seen the news photos of the city’s fall, recognized the look of desperation on the faces of the Vietnamese scrambling aboard the last choppers out. No, he couldn’t blame a woman for wanting to get out of the country, any way she could.
“You could still write about it,” Guy pointed out. “Try a different angle. How one woman escaped the madness. The price of survival.”
“My heart’s not in it any longer.” Hamilton gazed sadly around the rooftop. “Or in this town. I used to love it here! The noise, the smells. Even the whomp of the mortar rounds. But Saigon’s changed. The spirit’s flown out of it. The funny part is, this hotel looks exactly the same. I used to stand at this very bar and hear your generals whisper to each other, ‘What the hell are we doing here?’ I don’t think they ever quite figured it out.” He laughed and took another gulp of Scotch. “Memphis. Why would she want to go to Memphis?”
He was muttering to himself now, some private monologue about women causing all the world’s miseries. An opinion with which Guy could almost agree. All he had to do was think about his own miserable love life and he, too, would get the sudden, blinding urge to get thoroughly soused.
Women. All the same. Yet, somehow, all different.
He thought about Willy Maitland. She talked tough, but he could tell it was an act, that there was something soft, something vulnerable beneath that hard-as-nails surface. Hell, she was just a kid trying to live up to her old man’s name, pretending she didn’t need a man when she did. He had to admire her for that: her pride.
She was smart to turn down his offer. He wasn’t sure he had the stomach to go through with it anyway. Let the Ariel Group tighten his noose. He’d lived with his skeletons long enough; maybe it was time to let them out of the closet.
I should just do my job, he thought. Go to Hanoi, pick up a few dead soldiers, fly them home.
And forget about Willy Maitland.
Then again…
He ordered another beer. Drank it while the debate raged on in his head. Thought about all the ways he could help her, about how much she needed someone’s help. Considered doing it not because he was being forced into it, but because he wanted to. Out of the goodness of my heart? Now that was a new concept. No, he’d never been a Boy Scout. Something about those uniforms, about all that earnest goodliness and godliness, had struck him as faintly ridiculous. But here he was, Boy Scout Barnard, ready to offer his services, no strings attached.
Well, maybe a few strings. He couldn’t help fantasizing about the possibilities. He thought of how it would be, taking her up to his room. Undressing her. Feeling her yield beneath him. He swallowed hard and reached automatically for the Heineken.
“No doubt about it,” Hamilton muttered. “I tell you, it’s all their fault.”
“Hmm?” Guy turned. “Whose fault?”
“Women, of course. They cause more trouble than they’re worth.”
“You said it, pal.” Guy sighed and lifted the beer to his lips. “You said it.”
MEN. THEY CAUSE MORE trouble than they’re worth, Willy thought as she viciously wound her alarm clock.
A bounty hunter. She should have guessed. Warning bells should have gone off in her head the minute he so generously offered his help. Help. What a laugh. She thought of all the solicitation letters she and her mother had received, all the mercenary groups who’d offered, for a few thousand dollars, to provide just such worthless help. There’d been the MIA Search Fund, the Men Alive Committee, Operation Chestnut—Let’s Pull ’Em Out Of The Fire! had been their revolting slogan. How many grieving families had invested their hopes and savings on such futile dreams?
She stripped down to a tank top and flopped onto the bed. A decent night’s sleep, she could tell, was another futile dream. The mattress was lumpy, and the pillow seemed to be stuffed with concrete. Not that it mattered. How could she get any rest with that damned disco music vibrating through the walls? At 8:00 the first driving drumbeats had announced the opening of Dance Night at the Rex Hotel. Lord, she thought, what good is communism if it can’t even stamp out disco?
It occurred to her that, at that very minute, Guy Barnard was probably loitering downstairs in that dance hall, checking out the action. Sometimes she thought that was the real reason men started wars—it was an excuse to run away from home and check out the action.
What do I care if he’s down there eyeing the ladies? The man’s scum. He’s not worth a second
